Why I play poker. (very long)

[Diplomat]

This post is not like the usual posts I make. I’ve almost always posted about hands, or posted my thoughts on hands. But not today. Today is a little bit of a travelogue.

Like any morning, this one started too early. Coffee. Eggs. Shower that made me miss my bed more than woke me up. More coffee. I had better get dressed, or I’d miss my train.

I had not played poker in a card room in a while. I’d been playing the internet games that get posted here more regularly now, but, although my results were good, there was something…unsubstantial about them. So I was back on the road.

I live in Kingston, Ontario. Most central Canadians know where this is, but I’ll fill in the details for the rest of the posters and lurkers. Kingston is east of Toronto by about 190 miles. It’s south-west of Ottawa by about 120 miles…about 150 miles north of Syracuse. In other words, it’s in the middle of nowhere. At one time it was one of the three rotating capitals of Canada (Toronto, Kingston, Montreal), but now it’s just the home of thousands of incarcerated people; about 30,000 at the university, and about the same or more in 13 provincial and federal institutions in the Kingston/Frontenac region.

One might think this would be a decent place to find a game. But believe me, it’s a poker black hole. I spent a month organizing a no-limit home game with 1/2 blinds, and we are still 4 strong. It’s pathetic.

This sums up to me having to travel to play live, B+M poker. So here I was, bags packed, 5 grand in my jeans, off to play 50-100 hold’em in a town two trains away.

Traveling to play cards has always been enjoyable to me. There is something about riding a train to get to a poker game that reminds me of the Texas Panhandle. Maybe it’s just me living out a boyish fantasy of being a road gambler like Doyle or Bobby or Amarillo. If that’s what it is, that’s fine. But I do think there is something soulful about it. I put Johnny Cash and a good book in my backpack, and called a cab.

Small towns and red painted farmhouses flew by. Johnny was singing a cover of Hurt, (which I, in the significant minority, think is as good or better than the Nine Inch Nails version) and keeping me warm was…more coffee. The landscape in Ontario transforms around this time of year from green and vibrant to barren and lonely. The train to Toronto was not that busy, but it felt empty. Ever notice that the ride to the card room seems to take days?

After a quick transfer in Toronto, I was on my way to Brantford. Brantford is a sleepy little town about 70 miles west of Toronto, where not much of anything happens. Recently though they’ve began spreading 30, 50, and 75 games a few times a week. Word down the pipe is that the games are pretty soft – hence the reason for my trip. The ride to Brantford was more of the same – Ontario turning to winter, trees bare, hills quiet.

After checking into a hotel, I was down to the casino. I walked straight into an ok 30 game, made playable by three players that were flat-terrible. I played for 7 hours, only to come out even. Then I spotted a 3-handed 20 game going…

So I wandered over and took a seat. I was reminded briefly of something Tommy posted a while back – “4-handed is my best game, because I believe that it is so” or something like that. Eleven-hundred later, I decided my best game and Tommy’s favourate game do not coincide.

Day 2 – I wake up at the crack of 3:45pm, somewhat rested. I gave Prince a call to see if he’s coming in. Looks like he is. Down to the card barn to continue the quest.

The day started quietly, playing in a decent 30 game. But then it happened. I got hammered by a few beats, and suddenly I was stuck 2 grand. And that was not good at all. I struggled back though, and by the time Prince showed up, I was slightly better than even. The game was hilarious – a rather harsh argument broke out between two of the “entertainers” at the table, which only added to the dynamic. Before long the stakes were bumped, and we were playing 50-100.

And then I started to win. Aces held up twice, then kings, then ace-king. I began to amass a small fortune in front of me, and was feeling pretty high. So I kept playing. And playing. And playing. Suddenly it was six-thirty in the morning, and I was back to slightly above even for the day.

I’ve always thought that playing a session of hold’em that lasts well into the next day brings about a hallucinatory state that makes non-poker decision-making impossible. However, at the same time, it’s a weird high that cannot be replicated. As I waited for the morning train I bought a coffee – communicating effectively with the server was a task I could barely manage. Yet, an hour earlier I made a queen-high call on the river to snap off a bluff in an 1100-dollar pot, and I felt oddly giddy. Strange, no?

On the train home I tried desperately to get some sleep. I pulled my dirty Yale baseball hat low to cover my eyes, and wrapped my winter coat around me as a blanket; partially to keep me warm, partially to discourage conversation with an old man seated beside me. When I looked up to see where we were, he looked at me and laughed.

“Son, you look like you’ve been up all night. Been playin’ cards or something?”

I laughed back, and enjoyed the rest of the journey home under the brim of my hat.

I’m not sure what the point of this post is. I mostly just wanted to share. I think in a poker world such as the one we have currently, many of the best parts – for me – about playing poker, can easily be lost. It’s about the long trips to make the rent. It’s about slugging your bag through stations, through crappy hotels; it’s about the grind. It may not be fun, but there is something about it…

-Diplomat